


My Dog is a Good Judge of Character

by sugarboms898



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arya is president of the "protect sansa stark club", Developing Relationship, F/M, First Meeting, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Lady is a good girl, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Pre-Relationship, references to the show's canon, theon is a sloppy drunk that loves puppies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-19 23:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18980125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboms898/pseuds/sugarboms898
Summary: Although she prides herself on her ability to overcome and persevere, Sansa is not prepared for the unusual sight of a drunk man lying with her dog at three am.





	1. First (Second) Meeting

Sansa likes to pride herself on her ability to face unexpected life events with the poise and elegance befitting royalty. When she was twelve and accidentally walked in on her brother Robb having sex with his then-girlfriend; watching Arya slip in dog shit because her little beast, Nymeria, saw a cat while pooping; taking care of Bran and Rickon when they were sick as children, and as such, disgusting; Jon when he broke his leg trying to ride a mechanical bull. Even her parents were known to cut loose occasionally, usually after a big celebration, like their anniversary or Robb’s wedding. What she was _not_ prepared for, however, was this.

Waking up in the middle of the night is not uncommon for her; after three failed relationships, she often finds herself sleepless, memories and fear coiling around her gut like a vice. Most nights, she gets intimately acquainted with Netflix and Hulu, watching until the sun comes up and she leaves for the closest coffee shop.  Sometimes, when the memories and thoughts get really bad, she’ll make the trek to her parents’ house, curling in her childhood bed before slipping away the next day. Occasionally, she’ll drink, though never as much as she used to. Never again.

And so, while she prides herself on her ability to overcome and persevere, Sansa is not prepared for the unusual sight of a drunk man lying with her dog at three am.

Lady was a gift from her cousin, Jon; meant as a guard dog after Ramsay, Lady was as regal and elegant as her owner, and just as vicious. And yet there she lies, tail thumping on the ground as she cuddles with this man like a newborn pup. The man giggles as Lady licks his face, voice high-pitched and clearly inebriated. Sansa, coffee mug clutched in her hand, can only watch in befuddlement as the man plants slobbery kisses on Lady’s head, cooing unintelligently. Lady rolls over, legs kicking in excitement as the man scratches her belly, a wide grin on his face. Twisting her body, Lady must notice her, as she suddenly barks; startled, the man follows her gaze, eyes landing on Sansa watching from the small deck extending from her back door.

“Oh,” he says, tone surprised, “there’s a lady. A pretty lady.”

Raising an eyebrow, Sansa snaps her fingers; Lady bounds towards her, tail wagging happily; the man smiles wobbly at the dog, stumbling to get up. He makes it a few feet before falling, giggling as Lady pants, her tongue hanging out like a smile. Though wary, Sansa can’t help but feel some sort of amusement as the man coos at her dog, trying to imitate her earlier summons and failing; Lady cocks her head, tail wagging slowly. Mumbling to himself, the man nods once before crawling on the ground towards the two, laughing as Lady barks at him.

“Good girl, sweet girl,” he says, reaching out with grabby hands, “I love you, yes I do.”

Sansa snorts, turning to open her backdoor for the malamute; Lady hesitates before entering the house, bounding over to her water dish. Turning back in time to watch the man wail at the loss of the dog, Sansa tries to calm her sudden rush of anxiety. The man is drunk, someone she doesn’t know, and is now upset. Hand clenching around her mug, she tries to remember if she left her phone charging in her room or in the kitchen.

“Where dog’s go?” the man calls, voice sad.

Tensing, Sansa does not answer; the man sighs, staring at her in what is–clear as day–heartbreak.

“Why’re dogs?” he asks, as if she holds the answers to the universe.

“What.”

The man flops down on the ground, limbs sticking out like a starfish, “We don’t deserve dogs.”

Unable to form a response, Sansa contemplates leaving the man alone when he suddenly sits up, eyes bulging slightly. Startled, Sansa can only watch as the man leans over and empties the contents of his stomach on her lawn. Coughing, the man gives one last look of longing towards the backdoor before slumping over. Bewildered, Sansa idly notices that the man at least had the ability to aim away from his vomit before passing out.

* * *

Theon wakes up with an elephant of a hangover, his eyes dry and irritable as his throat burns raw and sore. So he got sick again. Great. Excellent. Asha was never going to let him live this down. Groaning, he tries to turn away from the overly bright sunlight shining in his eyes, scrambling and flailing as he is suddenly deposited on the floor. Ah. A sofa. Carpet.

Carpet?

Prying his crusty eyes open, Theon immediately slams them shut again, brain squeezing painfully in his skull. His right eye is throbbing, hand unconsciously flexing at the pain. He can hear something loud and deafening from the next room over–probably the kitchen, if he had to take a guess. He can hear someone moving around, talking to someone; hearing no responding voices, Theon assumes they’re on the phone. Speaking of phones. Patting at his pockets, Theon groans as he realizes he’s lost his phone and his wallet. Wonderful. Lovely. The voice suddenly cuts off; whoever’s in kitchen now knows he’s awake.

Curling in on himself, he squints towards where he thinks it is; nope, a wall. Turning a bit, he sees a pair of legs, shorts, a band t-shirt, shoulder-length brown hair. A girl? Where are her parents?

“Where’re your parents?” he slurs, voice reedy and cracked.

The girl snorts, turning to look over her shoulder at something. She smirks at him, an eyebrow lifting.

“At their home, I assume. Haven’t been in a while, if I’m honest.”

Nodding, Theon snuggles deeper into the carpet; he’s not uncomfortable, it’s just really soft.

“Well. Care to explain yourself, bruv?”

Theon looks up at her, head swimming; the girl is holding out a glass and some aspirin–god, he _prays_ it’s aspirin–grinning wildly. Slumping forward, he takes the glass and medicine, downing both in one go. He shudders slightly, a wave of nausea passing through him for just a moment.

“Don’t vom on the nice, lovely carpet, eh? Just got that done and all.”

Theon glares up at her; she sits on another sofa, watching him interestedly. She pulls a phone from somewhere, her fingers flying across the screen.

“Sans, want me to have Gen come?” she calls, not even glancing from her screen.

“…No. It’s alright,” a voice calls, a woman stepping into the room a moment later.

Theon isn’t one to believe in destiny or shit like that, believing things to be coincidental at best. But right here and now, Theon is fairly sure he’s in love. Long, tumbling waves of red hair; legs that stretch forever; a trim waist; sea-blue eyes; a gentle, kind smile. Theon is man enough to admit he’s smitten.

“Good to see you awake,” she says softly, her smile reserved but genuine.

Theon leans against the sofa at his back, watching both women. It’s hard to say, but he thinks they might be sisters. Friends, at the very least. The beautiful one sits gingerly down next to her friend, watching him with obvious curiosity. Hopefully he hasn’t fucked everything up–he’d really like to see her again after this.

“So, how’d you end up in my lovely sister’s backyard?” the younger woman asks, putting her phone down to glare at Theon, “D’you know what it’s like, getting a phone call at three in the fuckin’ morning from your sister? You expect the worst.”

Theon swallows, wishing he still had water in his glass. The older woman reaches out to take it, her fingertips brushing his; Theon is staring at her in what he knows is obvious adoration, if the snort from the other girl is any indication.

“Shithead,” she says, though her glare has lessened, “answer my fucking question.”

“I was out drinking,” Theon murmurs, picking at his wrist.

Nodding, the younger woman crosses her arms.

“…Suppose I got a bit drunk,” he admits, looking around.

He can see some of the neighboring houses through the windows and the backdoor; it’s a bit too posh for his usual haunts. He’s not quite sure where they are.

“Bit of an understatement, mate. Sansa says you were practically molesting her dog last night,” the girl says, cocking an eyebrow.

Sansa–the lovely one. She returns, holding the glass of water out like a shield; taking it from her hand as gently as he can, Theon barely processes what she’s said.

“Wait, you said dog?”

The two women share a look, Sansa nodding after a moment. She whistles high and loud, the sound of scampering paws echoing overhead. Theon can only listen helplessly as the dog trundles down the stairs, loping into the living room in a flurry of excitement.

A fucking _dog_.

“I…what did I do?” he asks helplessly as the dog comes barreling over, practically crawling into his lap.

Sansa bites her lip, Theon’s heart beating irregularly at the sight. She snaps her fingers, the dog immediately backing off to come sit by her side, tail going crazy against the floor.

“You were…spooning her,” Sansa says, resting a hand on the dog’s head, “and you were letting her lick your face.”

Groaning, Theon rubs a hand down his face in response, his expression the epitome of suffering. The younger woman laughs, readjusting to rest her feet in Sansa’s lap; she pulls her phone out again, no longer interested in the conversation.

“I hate dogs,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his head.

Sansa’s eyebrows shoot up, her expression incredulous. Wincing, Theon can feel his chances with her going up in flames.

“Forgive me, but it’s kind of hard to believe that when I watched you cuddle and play with my dog for half an hour,” Sansa says, ankles crossing.

Leaning his head back to rest on the sofa cushion, Theon pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Apparently I get…affectionate when drunk,” he explains, glancing back at the women, “especially with dogs.”

Shaking her head, Sansa grips her elbow, looking down at her dog in clear affection. Theon is irrationally jealous.

“Lady’s a good judge of character, even with people that don’t like dogs. And for her to be going crazy over you…”

Shaking his head, Theon gestures towards the other girl’s phone, “I lost m’phone and wallet, but trust me–I’ve got more than enough cat pictures to prove I’m not really a dog-lover.”

Glancing up, the girl with the phone juts her chin towards a small coffee table, her expression pitying. Right there in front of him are his phone and wallet, laid out neatly and orderly.

“Wow.”

The girl snorts, sticking out her hand.

“My name’s Arya. This is my older sister Sansa.”

Taking her hand, Theon is taken aback by her strong grip. Noticing his surprise, Arya gives him a sharp grin.

“That’s the other reason Sansa called me–she needed me to drag your fatarse in here.”

“Arya,” Sansa says sharply, glaring at her sister.

Shrugging, “It’s true, though. You could barely lift him, let alone get him in here.”

“He was _drunk_.”

“And he was passed out in your backyard next to a pile of vomit. Honestly, I would have left him.”

Despite her ribbing, Theon isn’t offended by Arya’s remarks. It actually reminds him of a coworker of his–the same sharp sense of humor. The two sisters are pushing each other now, jostling each other as they argue.

“I’m sorry to have been a bother,” Theon interrupts, a rueful grin on his face as Sansa and Arya stop shoving each other long enough to listen.

Waving her hand, Sansa’s voice is forcibly nonchalant when she says, “It’s fine. It happens to the best of us.”

Arya shares a look with Theon; they may have only known each other an hour at most, but Theon can tell Sansa’s uncomfortable with the situation. Honestly, if he was in her position, he would be too–a man you don’t know, showing up in your yard, aggressively cuddling your dog while drunk, then passing out. Not the best first impression.

Still, Theon is hopeful when he says, “If I can make it up to you, I will. I swear.”

Arya jabs her elbow into Sansa’s side, wiggling her eyebrows. The older sister is glaring daggers at her, her cheeks tinged pink; Theon is dying to know what that shade of pink tastes like. The two devolve into a language consisting of eyebrow movements and frowning; Theon busies himself with his phone, blinking languidly at the number of text messages he has. Asha’s is the most recent, _If you’re dead and in a ditch somewhere, I’m taking my fucking car back, wanker._ What a lovely sister.

Huffing, Arya gets up from the sofa, drawing Theon’s attention back; she waltzes into the kitchen area, busying herself with the teakettle. Sansa is leaning forward slightly, her cheeks still tinged pink. Leaning forward himself, Theon practically rips his pocket with how forcefully he shoves his phone inside; someone as beautiful as Sansa deserves his full attention.

“I don’t even know your name,” she says quietly, looking at him through her lashes.

Biting his lip, Theon forcefully expels air through his nose; absolute idiot.

“Theon. Theon Greyjoy.”

Blinking, Sansa tilts her head slightly, eyes surprised.

“Theon,” His heart speeds up when she says his name, “You work with my brother. The bar _Winterfell_ , right?”

It’s Theon’s turn: eyebrows lifting, he lets his eyes dart across Sansa’s figure, scrambling to remember who he works with.

“Aye. You’re brother…?”

“Robb,” she says immediately, a small smile on her face.

Holy fuck.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes, recognition crashing over him.

Robb. His best mate, Robb. The man he’d gone to school with years ago, who opened his own bar and immediately hired him. Smile growing, Sansa lets out a small laugh. It’s the most beautiful sound Theon’s ever heard–he wants to listen to it every day for the rest of his life. Robb’s little sister, Sansa. Of course.

“We’ve met,” he says, wonderingly, “when Robb opened the bar.”

Sansa nods slowly, her eyes flashing.

“Oh god, you were the guy who wanted to do jello shots at bloody nine in the morning.”

Laughing, Theon rubs a hand through his hair in embarrassment.

“Twenty-two year old Theon was a bit of a dickhead, if we’re being honest. Don’t know how he made it past.”

Giggling, Sansa relaxes slightly, leaning back into the sofa; she’s twirling a strand of hair around her finger, smile soft and fond. Pinching himself, Theon tries to keep from grinning dopily at her.

“I suppose we can forgive him. Robb likes him, that has to count for something.”

“Just Robb, then? No one else likes me?” Theon asks, bold.

No one ever said he was smart.

Sansa is looking at him, her eyes piercing. Theon tries not to shrink under her gaze, but it’s a close thing. He can suddenly see the resemblance between her and Arya, and the two of them and Robb–apparently all of the Stark children have the ability to see into your soul with a single gaze.

“…Well. I’m sure there’s someone,” Sansa says finally, chin lifting, “but he’d really have to work for it.”

Sucking in a breath, Theon lets his gaze linger on Sansa’s lips, his own darting out to wet the corners; he can see Sansa’s face flushing a bit, though her eyes stay steady. God, she’s stunning.

“I think we can work something out,” he murmurs, expression gentling, “after all, I owe her for ruining her night. Whatever she wants, I’ll give it.”

Smiling, Sansa tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She leans forward, something mischievous crossing her face.

“I wouldn’t say ruined. Though, if you want to make it up to me, you’d have to stay over proper. Wake up in a bed, and all that.”

Theon hopes she likes summer weddings.


	2. 'I Love You'

Sansa gets home from work, exhausted and aching. She wasn’t able to sleep the night before: nightmares of wicked smiles, one morphing into the other, taunting her with memories of cruelty and pain. She’d spent the night texting Theon and Arya, guilt eating at her as she kept them up. Work was no better, having to deal with three separate sixth form formal walk-ins, and a rush-order bridal gown before noon; the afternoon was a flurry of finishing touches on orders, squaring away the ones being picked up that day and the ones later in the week, picking up more skeins of fabric, and a quick run over to the craft store for some emergency supplies.

It wasn’t an unusual day, but coupled with the lack of sleep the night before made it long and tiring; groaning, Sansa slumps against the front door after entering her house; Lady is scampering down the stairs, tail wagging erratically as she waits for Sansa to pet her. Smiling softly, Sansa runs a hand across Lady’s soft fur, digging her fingers behind the malamute’s ears. Tongue lolling happily, Lady trots towards the kitchen after a few moments. Sansa watches her go, blinking; the malamute would usually be chomping at the bit trying to get into the backyard. Rubbing a hand down her face, Sansa grimaces as she remembers her makeup; groaning, she heaves herself from the door, slopping her bag down on the hall table.

Stretching her arms, Sansa barely notices the note next to her bag. Picking it up, she smiles after a moment, her shoulders slumping. Setting it down gently, she slowly makes her way up the stairs towards her room; a folded pile of clothes are on the bed, another note left on top. Rubbing a knuckle under her left eye, Sansa smiles as she read the slip of paper; setting it down, she enters the bathroom, sighing at the wall of warm air that greets her. Stripping down, she sinks into the hot water, running her hands through her hair and down her arms. She almost falls asleep, she’s so relaxed; a scratching at the door makes her eyes open.

Reluctantly leaving the bath, Sansa wraps herself in her bathrobe, opening the door to pet Lady. The malamute is grinning at her, tail wagging happily; wringing her hair out before putting it in a bun, Sansa slowly changes into the sweatpants and hoodie left out for her. She makes her way down the stairs, heading into the kitchen. Theon is standing in front of the oven, stirring something in a pot. Sansa leans against the doorway, watching her boyfriend as he continues cooking. Lady trots past her, nosing at Theon’s leg; he glances down at her, patting her head after a moment. Heart thumping, Sansa crosses her arms as she continues to watch them; it feels right, seeing them here, together.

Suddenly, painfully, Sansa wants this: wants Theon in the mornings, in the nights; wants him patting Lady as he comes home from work, his cats weaving through her feet as she comes down the stairs; wants to make dinner together, have breakfast in the morning; bathe together, sleep together. She wants the comfort, familiarity of him here, have him _home_.

“No more snacks, okay? Sansa’ll kill me.”

Chuckling softly, Sansa makes her way towards Theon, winding her arms around his stomach. She leans on his back, sighing as his fingers tangle with hers. He tugs their twined hands up, pressing a soft kiss to her wrist.

“Supper’s almost done, love,” he says, a smile in his voice, “if you wanna go settle down.”

Affection stabs through Sansa; god, how she  _wants_. Pressing her forehead to his shoulder blades, Sansa rubs her face against his shirt. The faint scent of ocean winds around her, settling in her bones; she can feel it spreading through her skin, sinking down into her blood until the salt mixes with iron. Licking her lips, she can taste the sea.

“Sans? Doin’ alright?”

Yes. More than.

Sansa lets go of Theon, stepping away as he finishes dinner. He sets the pot down on the other burner, turning to look at Sansa with a raised eyebrow. Smiling, Sansa moves forward, hugging her boyfriend tightly. His arms wrap around her instantly, rubbing along her back as he buries his face in her neck. She shivers as he presses a soft kiss to her neck, smiling against her skin; they sway slightly, Theon rocking them as Sansa snuggles into his chest.

“Not that I mind,” Theon starts, voice quiet, “but the food’ll go cold if we don’t eat it soon.”

“And what _is_ for dinner, then?”

Theon snorts, a lazy smirk on his face.

“Macaroni and cheese.”

Laughing, Sansa pulls at Theon’s neck, tugging him down for a kiss. Hands settling on her hips, Theon presses their lips together once, twice, three more times before letting go; he reaches for a set of bowls, arguing good-naturedly with Lady as she begs for scraps. Sansa feels her heart in her throat, thumping and aching.

“I love you.”

Theon pauses, bowls clenched in his hands; anxious, Sansa takes the bowls from his hands, lips pursed. Theon is looking at her, eyes wide, mouth pressed in a firm line. Sansa tries to busy herself with serving dinner, shoulders hunching as the silence stretches on. She’s halfway to her seat when Theon moves; taking the bowl from her hands, Theon grips her hands in his. He’s staring at her with wonder on his face, his thumbs rubbing across her knuckles.

“Sansa.”

She is staring down at their feet; hers bare, his in mismatched socks. She likes the one on his left foot, little kitty pawprints. She bought him that pair; he’d pretended not to like them, but she could tell. Distantly, she knows she’s panicking, breathing just a little too short.

“Sans, look at me, love.”

It takes her a minute, hands trembling slightly, but she does. Theon’s eyes are soft, a small smile on his face. He lifts a hand slowly, inching it towards her face. When she doesn’t flinch away, he presses it to her cheek, thumb smoothing the skin under her eye. She lets out a shaky breath, hands reaching for Theon’s other; he squeezes it, fingers tangling together.

“Deep breaths, Sansa, like we practiced,” he murmurs, taking a small step closer.

Sansa nods, breathing still a little fast; Theon tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, running a finger along the shell of her ear. She shudders, hand clenching around Theon’s. If it hurts, he doesn’t show it.

“If you’re uncomfortable–”

“No,” she says, voice unsteady. Clearing her throat, she tries again, “No. I meant it. I love you.”

Theon shudders, eyes slipping shut for a moment. His blinks slowly, an incredulous smile on his face. He leans forward, pressing their foreheads together; Sansa takes a deep breath, tries to calm her heart.

“I’ll be honest, I kind of wish I could record this,” Theon jokes, smile growing as Sansa lets out a watery chuckle, “just so’s I can listen to you say it forever. But twice is more than enough–think I can live forever just knowing you love me.”

Sansa lets out a laugh that more like a sob, arms slipping around Theon’s chest. He hugs her close, rubbing a soothing hand across her back. Theon murmurs in her ear, comforting words and reassurances as she calms down. She hates that they’ve tainted her enough to fear saying these words, made her second guess and regret and resent herself. But she won’t let them have this–won’t let them have him. Even if she breaks just a bit, she will be selfish, and take this, and love him with her whole being.

“I love you. I love you.”

* * *

It’s a dead Wednesday morning at _Winterfell_ when she waltzes in.

Well, ‘waltzes in’ is a bit of an understatement–she floats in on air, graceful and elegant with the sun lighting her from behind; her hair tussled in the breeze, brushing low on her back and framing her heart’s face; sea-blue eyes wide and lovely; luscious, full, _beautiful_ pink lips curved up in a smile–

“For fuck’s sake, Greyjoy.”

Theon turns to his coworker, face heating as Robb grins sharply at him. Arsehole Robb. Shoving his friend, Theon practically rushes to the end of the bar as Sansa sits down, smiling softly at him. Leaning forward, she gently grabs the front of his shirt, bringing him down for a gentle kiss. Melting, Theon touches his fingers to her cheek, running them down the line of her jaw. God, she’s beautiful. He hopes she’d like to keep him.

“Oi, dickhead. What’d I _just_ say?”

Breaking the kiss, Sansa snickers at her brother as Theon flips him off; grinning, Robb shoves Theon out of the way, leaning against the countertop with puckered lips.

“Gives us a kiss, Sans, since you’re just giving them out all willy-nilly. Honestly, what would Mother say?”

Giggling, the two siblings start to catch up, Theon watching them fondly, wiping the countertop. He starts replacing the ice in the ice bin, the bucket heavy and filled to the top. He catches Sansa watching him, her teeth digging into her bottom lip; flushing, Theon throws her a wink over his shoulder, exaggerating his movements to show off. She smiles at him, resting her chin on her hand. He can’t believe his luck.

“…should just kill you two, honestly.”

Theon looks at his friend, raising an eyebrow. Robb is grinning widely at them, shaking his head. Grabbing his cleaning rag, Theon throws it at the older Stark, laughing sharply at Robb’s squeal. Sansa is laughing, leaning back on the stool. Breath catching, Theon feels his body warm at the sound; he could live in it for the rest of time and it wouldn’t be enough. Sansa smiles at her brother’s pout, reaching across the counter to mess with his curls, fingers tugging at the small patch of silver growing along the fringe. The two siblings jostle each other, stopping only when the door opens behind them.

Robb hurries to take care of the new customer, leaving Sansa and Theon alone for the moment. Smile softening, he reaches for her hand across the counter; she twines their fingers immediately, sighing as he brings her hand up for a kiss. Being with Sansa is easy; he can feel himself slowing, the rough and choppy edges born from the ocean gentling into something calm. Can feel himself taking root and staying still, feet on firm ground. He would give up everything for her if she asked. She hasn’t, nor would she–but he’d do it. He’d give her the world if he could.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” Sansa murmurs, eyes glittering.

He loves her.

“I love you,” Theon says, quiet and fond and easy like it’s not the first time he’s told her he loves her.

Sansa’s breath stutters out of her, fingers trembling slightly in his grip. Smiling softly, Theon kisses her hand again, leaning forward. She looks at his with wide eyes, lips parted just enough that it’s driving Theon wild. Licking his lips, he gives her hand a reassuring squeeze, his other hand reaching out to cup her cheek. He wants to remember this moment forever–even if she never tells him back, he wants to treasure her for the rest of his days. Keep it locked in his memory to take out on rainy days, when he’s returned to the sea and his body is gone–remember the way her lips are trembling, skin flushing pink and warm, her eyes wide and the color of everything because she loves him, and he loves her.

“You don’t have to say it back, Sans,” he tells her, eyes darting across her face, “but I wanted to tell you. Needed to do it. Couldn’t live another moment of my life not telling you I love you.”

“Say it again.”

Theon’s chest is hurting, his heart squeezing tight against his ribs. Smiling, he leans forward, voice gentle.

“I love you.”

“Again.”

Sansa looks close to tears, blue eyes watering. She does not cry, but it’s close.

“I love you, Sansa Stark.”

Chest heaving, Sansa nods, hand darting out to grip Theon’s shirt, hand twisting in the fabric as she yanks him down into a kiss. Theon knows it’s too early–they haven’t dated all that long–but from the moment he laid eyes on her, he knew. She’s it. She’s everything.


	3. Marry Me

Theon hasn’t forgotten his and Sansa’s first meeting (second, really, but they hadn’t _known_ who they were then, so he counts it as the first). He hasn’t forgotten the way she looked, coy and lovely and like the world was made to revolve around her. Hasn’t forgotten the way she makes his heart stutter, his breath catch; how she folds into his life like she’s meant to be there, worshipped and loved and respected. How Sansa had been beaten–but never broken–and came out stronger for it; she still has nightmares–is still triggered by certain phrases or situations–but most nights she sleeps soundly, not fully healed (is there such a thing, Theon wonders), but _healing_. In the year and a half they’ve been dating, a year of living together, he’s only more convinced–only more sure of it. Sansa is his love, his life. He wants to spend forever with her. He wants to marry her.

The question, then, is _how_ to marry her. No. Theon knows _how_ to marry her, but not, rather, how to _propose_. He contemplates asking the Starks for help, but Theon still has the scars from Robb’s attempt (Theon refuses to go anywhere near fireworks), and Arya’s advice would be to just ask her over chips (which, isn’t the _worst_ advice, if he’s being honest, but Theon would like it to be at least a little more romantic). Which leads him to the other Stark children. Theon and Bran don’t get along, per se, but they have reached a tentative truce in an effort to stay in Sansa’s good graces–if she’s a goddess when she’s happy and smiling, she just as terrifying as one when mad. Theon won’t lie, though, it’s incredibly attractive.

“You want to ask Sansa to marry you,” Bran says, apropos of nothing.

Bran has an uncanny ability to know exactly what you’re going to say; it’s disconcerting, but only at first. That’s a lie, it’s always weird and uncomfortable, but Theon’s gotten used to it. Breathing out through his nose, Theon nods after a moment.

“That transparent, eh?” he tries to joke, eye twitching when Bran continues to just stare at him.

“You want to know how you should ask her. I don’t have an answer.”

Theon pouts, slumping into the chair across from Bran. The young Stark watches him passively, blinking sleepily at him.

“You’re her brother–you must have _some_ idea.”

Bran glances towards the window, voice tinged with just a hint of amusement, “You could always ask Robb.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Theon says, the corners of his lips pulling up in spite of himself.

Bran’s face twitches for just a moment; Theon too glances towards the window, Summer and Shaggydog playing with Rickon in the yard. Pursing his lips, Theon crosses his arms, wracking his brain for ideas; the two lapse into silence, the only sound Theon’s leg bouncing on the floor.

“You should ask Father and Mother for their blessing,” Bran says suddenly, startling Theon.

He looks at the younger Stark, biting his lower lip, “Yeah?”

Nodding, Bran turns to face Theon, a slight smile on his face. It’s a strange little smile, knowing and secretive. Theon isn’t entirely sure Bran’s not laughing at him.

“Yes,” he says simply, “Father, Mother, _and_ Sansa would all be appreciative of the consideration in asking. It’s more traditional–Sansa had always held the traditions of matrimony in high regard. It would probably mean a lot to her.”

Theon nods, a contemplative look on his face.

“Ta, Bran.”

Bran simply nods, his attention turning back to the window. A few moments later, Rickon comes barreling into the house; at the age of eighteen, he’s still got the energy of a child half that old. He grins at the two of them, flopping down on the sofa next to Bran; he kicks his feet up in his brother’s lap, grin widening as Bran merely lifts and resettles his hands to rest on Rickon’s legs. Theon can only raise an eyebrow; the younger Stark siblings are a particular brand of strange, and any questions are better left alone.

“So, you come to ask for our help in bagging Sansa?” Rickon says loudly, staring at Theon.

“I was under the impression that I’d already ‘bagged’ her when we started dating,” Theon responds drily.

Rolling his eyes, Rickon waves his hand as if to dispel Theon’s words.

“Y’know what I mean, bruv. Proposing, or whatever.”

Theon pinches the bridge of his nose. Don’t kill the kid, he’s going to be your brother-in-law. Nodding his head after a moment, Theon crosses his arms.

“Yes, okay? I’d like to ask Sansa to marry me.”

Rickon nods, expression growing serious after a moment.

“Good, you make her happy. Not that that would be difficult after the last two bastards, but y’know.”

Bran’s face twitches the more Rickon goes on; Theon hates him, just a little. He tunes out as Rickon continues to talk, the younger’s eyes trained on his phone as he taps quickly on the screen. Theon likes this couch, it’s fairly comfortable, and a nice beige color. Most people don’t realize the appeal of the color beige–useful, makes a good base for brighter accent colors.

“–even listening to me, bruv?”

“Of course,” Theon says, voice monotonous.

Bran snorts, expression decidedly amused. Briefly, Theon thinks he has an idea of what Bran was like as a child, before. Bran turns to face Rickon, hand ghosting over the soles of Rickon’s feet.

“Go get Mother and Father,” he says over Rickon’s shrieks, “Theon should speak with them.”

Rickon practically flies out of the room, Bran following at a much more sedate pace. He pauses at the doorway, turning his wheelchair to face Theon again, the smile gone from his mouth, but not his eyes.

“They’ll say yes.”

Theon bites his lip, insecurity flicking across his face.

“Trust me, Theon. They’ll say yes.”

Bran wheels away just as Ned and Catelyn Stark turn the corner, the two smiling softly at each other. There’s a knowing look on Catelyn’s face, her hands folded together tightly. Getting up hastily, Theon waits to sit down again until the Starks have taken their sons’ place. Sitting up straight, Theon’s leg starts bouncing again.

“Uh–”

Ned grins at him; when he smiles, Theon can see the resemblance between him and his children. Though Robb and Sansa resemble their mother the most, all the Starks get their piercing looks from the man in front of him. Gulping in anticipation, Theon clears his throat and wipes his hands on his pants.

“I would like, with your permission, to ask Sansa to marry me.”

Catelyn’s face does a weird spasm, her expression elated even as tears well in the corner of her eyes. She grips Ned’s arm, hands locking together; a sudden ache fills Theon–he wants that. The simple reassurance of marriage, of knowing they are bound together, that their love is powerful enough to permeate every aspect of their lives; that his adoration and affection and reverence is seen far and wide across the galaxy, from the beginning until the end of time. More than anything, he just wants Sansa to be happy. He hopes–he’s praying–that asking her to marry him will make her happy.

“You two have discussed this?” Ned asks, patting his wife’s hand.

Theon nods, a small jerky thing. Catelyn is scrutinizing his every movement, tracking his reactions; he thinks he can see a hint of amusement in her gaze, but his own gaze is focused on Ned, the patriarch of the Stark family. His expression has settled into something grave and serious, the amusement from before fading as quickly as it had come.

“Yeah. We’ve talked about it for a while now. Sansa wants to wait a bit for the actual thing–which I’m wholly fine with–but to be honest, if I don’t ask her soon, I feel like I might die.”

Ned nods at her, thumbs smoothing over Catelyn’s hands as she lets out a small sound; she swipes at her eyes, offering Theon a small smile.

“You make her very happy, Theon,” Catelyn says, reaching forward to rest her hand on his knee, “What she went through with Joffrey, then Ramsay–it was so hard, watching her and feeling unable to help. She lost so much of herself after them, but you helped her. You gave her the space, the time, and the support to rediscover herself. I’m eternally grateful to you, Theon, for loving her as you have.”

Theon can feel his heart clenching in his chest, a lump in his throat. Clearing his throat a few times, he nods after a moment, blinking rapidly.

“You have my blessing,” Catelyn continues, leaning back.

Ned nods, his expression still solemn, “You helped bring our daughter back.”

Theon shakes his head, a small smile on his face.

“Wasn’t me, Mr. Stark. Sansa’s so strong on her own, she didn’t need me for any of it. Everything she’s been through, every moment, she got through because of _you_ –you raised her to be strong, and smart, and more. She’s everything to me, and I’d do anything to make her happy–I’d die for her.”

Ned takes a moment to clear his throat, but afterwards, he smiles.

“Now, how were you planning on asking her, son?”

* * *

Sansa has always loved dancing.

It had been exciting, at first, when she’d dated Joffrey–he’d take her to all these formal dances, wearing wonderfully tailored suits, spinning her around ornate ballrooms for everyone to see. It was like a never-ending fairytale; how he’d smile and press kisses to her cheeks, whispering lovely compliments and sweet nothings to her as her dress flared behind her. But after a while, he stopped taking her to fancy galas, stopped showing her off as someone–some _thing_ –he was fond of. Smiles turned to sneers, and kisses turned painful, stinging and sharp on such delicate skin. Instead of comfort and care, he offered anger and hurt. He left her shaking on unsteady feet.

Ramsay was worse.

He didn’t parade her around dance halls, just twirled her around the floor of his flat, hands firm on her waist as she relearned how to move. He showed her how to dance again, slowly and steadily until she could flit around like a bird. He taught her to hide in the shadows, nails digging in when she made a mistake; he’d press a kiss to his marks, murmuring apologies when it was too great to ignore. But then he’d grip her waist in irons, voice deadly and soft when she angered him. He’d purposefully trip her, let her fall to the ground until her bird’s wings were clipped. Until she learned how to _know her place, know her role_.

Joffrey was outwardly hurtful, always saying something cutting, forward in his cruelty; Ramsay was like a sickness, consuming her from the inside out. She doesn’t remember much from her last time in hospital, only that her doctors feared she’d never dance again, her pain and her brokenness running through her blood until it poured from her skin. Once she’d come home, she put dancing aside, content to spend her life in the shadows, just like Ramsay had said she would. But Arya and Robb and Jon wouldn’t let her. Arya would take her to museums, to concerts, to performances, taking her places where she could see dancing as something pleasant, something to be enjoyed. Robb would invite her to his house, sit her down with his wife on the couch, and watch musical after musical; he’d take turns spinning them around the room, hands soft and gentle and never more than a just-there pressure on her skin, showing her how dancing wasn’t supposed to hurt.

And Jon.

Jon took her out to lunch one day, his dark grey eyes unreadable, for once in his life. Sansa hadn’t known a time when Jon’s emotions weren’t clear as day, all over his face; he took her by the arm, as gentle as the breeze, and brought her to a park. Sat her down on a bench, told her to _wait just a mo’ while I go get you your present_ , and came back with a puppy. Placed the ball of fluff in Sansa’s lap, tail wagging and nose sniffing; sat down and told her all about the group he worked with, survivors of abuse, and how some people needed classically trained partners. He held her as she cried, thanking him and petting the puppy, smiling as she named her ‘Lady,’ everything she felt Ramsay and Joffrey had stripped away.

It took her a long time to be comfortable with dancing; to open herself up to dancing by herself, dancing with others; it took her until a fairly drunk man stumbled his way into her backyard and play with her dog, to want to dance again. They’d met once before, when they were younger, him cocky and her with a child’s innocence, the timing too off; and then they met again, a second chance after everything changed. She wants to dance with him–that’s the most shocking part; she thought, after everything, she wouldn’t find anyone. But he just appears in her life, holds out a hand, and lets her choose for herself. She’s scared, at first, and doesn’t accept. But she hopes–god, does she hope–that he’ll offer one more time. She wants to try, wants to try just one more time with him.

Sansa is lying in their bed, Ser Glaucus, Levi, Lady, and Davy Jones snuggled around her. Theon is absconded in the bathroom, his voice warbling along to the music playing on his phone. Smiling, Sansa thumbs through the photos of their pet pile on her phone, deciding on one to post to _Instagram_. She hears the water cut off, her smile growing as the door opens, Theon’s off-key singing gaining volume. She snuggles further in the pet pile, Lady shifting to rest her head on Sansa’s leg; Theon’s voice drifts off into silence, prompting Sansa to look up. He’s staring at her, eyes soft and expression tender. Smiling, she holds out her phone, shaking it slightly.

“Help me pick a picture of our furbies for social.”

Sansa pulls the phone back towards her face, finger sliding across the screen; she doesn’t notice Theon moves until he’s kneeling on the floor next to her, hand reaching for her. She twines their fingers together, eyebrows rising as she looks at him. He’s staring at her like he’s never seen her before, his grey-green eyes shiny and bright. Frowning slightly, Sansa lifts her head, concern crossing her face.

“Theon? Are you okay?”

“I love you,” Theon says, free hand tangling in her hair, “I love you so fucking much it scares me.”

Biting her lip briefly, Sansa leans forward to kiss him; he returns it, gentle and sweet. He reaches towards the side table, reaching into the drawer for something. Sansa is watching him in confusion; he pulls something from the drawer, hesitant as he brings it forward. Sansa knows she’s logical. She knows she’s smart. She knows what he’s holding. But for the life of her, she can’t make two and two equal four.

Theon is looking at her through his eyelashes, a nervous smile playing at his lips. Sansa can feel her breath hitch as he opens the box; the ring is a simple white gold band, with a set of three diamonds. Taking it from the box, Theon hold it up to her, hand shaking slightly as she reaches for it. She holds it in her fingers, twisting and turning it. Slowly, carefully, Theon takes her phone from her other hand, putting it down; he takes her empty hand in his, rubbing this thumb across her ring finger.

“I love you, Sansa Stark. I never thought I’d find someone like you, someone I could love so wholly, so completely. This past year and half have been the best of my life, and nothing would make me happier than if I could spend the rest of my life with you. I want everything with you–the good, the bad–all of it. I love you so much Sans, d’you think you would want that too? Will you marry me, spend the rest of your life with me?”

Sansa can feel herself shaking, breathing uneven as her eyes water; taking a deep breath, she gives him a wobbly smile, nodding.

“Yes. God, Theon, yes.”

Theon’s smile is blinding; he slides the ring onto her finger, bending down to press a kiss to her wrist. He trails quick little kisses up her arm, over her shoulder; he kisses her neck, her cheeks, her eyelids, forehead–until she laughs, pulling him forward to press his lips to hers.

He tastes like the sea.

He tastes like home.

He tastes like the future–like long nights wrapped around each other; of days spent exploring every dip, every valley on the other’s body; of a big house, their pets scattered from one end to the other as high, light laughter spills from the backyard; of first days of school, graduations, uni admissions. He tastes of aches and sighs, of wrinkles and age and hands clasped together, until the end.

Theon Greyjoy tastes like everything she wants, and more. Sansa hopes that she tastes the same for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theon and Sansa own three cats:
> 
> Ser Glaucus the Brave, Levi (Leviathan), and Davy Jones. All are references to gods/creatures/entities associated with the ocean.
> 
> Also Sansa calls their pets (fur babies) furbies I don't make the rules.

**Author's Note:**

> Sansa and Theon are soft and in love because fuck canon.


End file.
